


We're happy, Ma, we're having fun. (and the train ain't even left the station)

by fvartoxin



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Holy Musical B@man - Team StarKid
Genre: 1 (one) terrible joke about necrophilia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Bisexual Male Character, Candy/Sweet Tooth is MENTIONED, I shall politely ask that others writing HMB fanfic DO NOT use the name Silas Torrance, I'm proud of that, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Crazy Quilt, Mentions of Dollmaker, Mentions of Mr. Freeze, Mentions of Ragdoll, Mentions of The Riddler, Mentions of an ex-friend's Batman OC [Arachne], Mr. Freeze isn't German here, Past Relationship(s), Polyamorous Character, Silas honey you okay?, Technically I finished writing this yesterday, That's the joke, it'll be a thing again eventually, mentions of Professor Pyg, spoiler: he's not, which is why I bumped the rating up to T
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21767086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fvartoxin/pseuds/fvartoxin
Summary: Sometimes you just have to have a long-winded chat with your ex....Or, have several long-winded chats with your ex. Or, ONE of your exes. This year's been hell for you, hasn't it?
Relationships: Candy/Sweet Tooth, Scarecrow/Sweet Tooth [what do I even call this]
Kudos: 3





	We're happy, Ma, we're having fun. (and the train ain't even left the station)

**Author's Note:**

> Some bits of this will only make sense if you were in the Starkid Speaks Discord server while it lasted. Can you enjoy it regardless? Yes. Of note, the Scarecrow in Starkid Speaks was not originally penned by me; I gladly credit my friend for that. She was amazing! There's several Speaks inside jokes in here.
> 
> Also, AO3 hates me and won't let me directly import, so copying and pasting [and ENTIRELY REFORMATTING] it is.

There were more dignified ways to spend an evening; _certainly_ so, and certainly more dignified than huddling on an ottoman next to your ex-boyfriend in complete silence (and currently trying not to come apart at the seams). For the past twenty minutes. Sitting way too physically close together for it to be comfortable for either party involved. The cane lay loosely at his side, kept from clattering to the worn-down floor only by his half-assed hold on it.

But, at this point in the year, what _was_ dignity? He’d lost everything, in a technical sense. Well, except Victor and Basil. And all over…He didn’t even know what that whole mess had been, really, apart from something which likely needed years of therapy that he was never going to pursue (he’d like to have not considered himself sexist; he was ashamed of himself not because she’d been a woman, _hell_ no, it was the fact that he’d known Arachne for all of what, two weeks? Holy shit, he’d gone from trying to see the positive attributes in a woman his then-girlfriend had instantly gotten attached to, to having a whole-ass child in two weeks. Haha, what the _fuck_? **Mental note:** just fucking murder whoever thought it’d be a good idea to speed up the gestation of every expectant woman in Gotham. _Slowly_.) due to varying reasons that were mostly bullshit and partially the Borderline Personality Disorder talking. And, potentially, slight PTSD from this hell year. He didn’t exactly know.

At least 2019 was nearly over. Hey, maybe he’d live to see 2020.

“ _Jonathan_ ,” he croaked out eventually, still ever-so-slightly unaccustomed to the permanent rasp to his own tone now. At the sound of his own voice, layered with both vocal cord trauma and emotional pain, he suppressed a wince. Oh, thank dead God that someone had had the sense to convert some of the space in this warehouse to side rooms (just in case). Both men were secluded enough, now, and this thought brought a minor amount of relief. “I…I don’t think I want to be alone right now.” As if that wasn’t already obvious to some degree.

Some part of him so desperately didn’t want to be alone ever again, but the remnants of whatever logical thought processes he’d once had were screaming that the idea was deeply selfish. And given whatever the fuck this year had been in addition to his neuroses, it was indeed. He’d dug his own damn grave, in large part. Nothing left but to live with that.

“I’m still sitting here,” the fellow villain confirmed quietly; there was a calming undercurrent to his voice. “And no, I’m not going anywhere. Not _now_ , at least.” Not that he particularly could, could he? Not quite, seeing as how a significant portion of the Gallery were still stuck in the communal hideout due to flooding. That and he wasn’t, like, a total asshole.

But of course, you could still make the well-deserved argument that yes, people who tortured others with hallucinogenic chemicals were by nature _more than kind of assholes_.

“D-“ and here his voice faltered, “do you mind if I just…?” Without waiting for a verbalized answer, he flopped like a ragdoll, and let his head rest on Jonathan’s shoulder.

He didn’t outwardly react to that, other than tensing slightly at the sudden addition of weight. “Do you want to talk about it, or shall we continue sitting here? Frankly, I’m fine with either.”

“I don’t think I’d know where to _start_ , Jon,” he confessed, and promptly chose to focus his monocular gaze on the floor instead of anything else in the room. “Honestly? I don’t think I ever _will_ know. And besides, it wouldn’t be appropriate to unload on you like that.”

“You don’t have to.” It wasn’t some kind of silly competition, after all. His brow furrowed. “Silas. Silas, did you forget that I’m a fucking _psychologist_? Listening, and analyzing, is my job in part.”

“No, I. I guess I don’t, no,” he fumbled through his speech, then sighed shakily. “And, of course I didn’t. I never would have. But, still. Also, you look great, you know. Just thought I should tell you that. Yeah.” The rest of that sentence was choked back, saved for later.

Well, or saved for _literally never_ , as it probably would be.

“Yellow’s always looked nice on you.”

“Thank you.” ‘And you look… _worse_ than when I saw you last, actually’ would have been a wholly inappropriate response. “Ah, it may be a small gathering when compared to our previous winter celebrations, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to come in more formal attire. Compared to Eddie, I blend in; though, compared to Eddie, everyone blends in, don’t they? Whether they’re Croc or the Cat.” He paused, though momentarily, his strong features scrunching in thought. “Perhaps that’s not a fair example, considering they both have a fashion sense whereas Edward is simply a travesty; one that never fails to confuse the colorblind.”

“Compared to Eddie, you have _dignity_ ; but you always did, so I’m unsure if that’s fair either.” That elicited a laugh, however weak. “You forgot about Dekker, though I’m not blaming you for that. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, come to think of it. So, not all of the colorblind. But most.”

“That depends on opinion, doesn’t it?” Jonathan smirked. “And yes, Crazy Quilt is indeed a special case. I believe he fills his own, separate category in terms of that, don’t you?”

“Oh, he absolutely does; I wasn’t intending to suggest otherwise.” He kept his eye focused on the floor, absorbing himself in visually tracing lines into the worn carpet. “I suppose bubblegum pink and neon green aren’t too far apart on the unofficial scale of gaudiness, are they?”

“The difference is that you and Candy, wherever she is now, both know how to work with brighter colors,” he sniffed, and rolled his eyes. “Although hers was more of a hot pink, wasn’t it? Combined nicely with that blue. Edward’s a disaster in his own right, and it shows in quite literally everything that the man does.”

“Her father’s a skilled tailor, I’d expect so. And yes, somewhat. Although in certain lighting it could get hard to tell.” At the mention of Emily, something in his throat closed up. Although it didn’t take a genius to predict such, it took him quite a while to continue speaking. “We both have quite the eye for design, although I don’t have that added bonus on my side of things. But I make do.”

He nodded in assent, and then let the matter drop. “You know, Silas, I don’t believe that you’ve ever talked about your own parents. At least, not in my presence.”

“What’s there to talk about? My mother was too busy with work to give any more attention than the bare minimum to her children, apart from the times where she sat us down and drilled the importance of oral health into myself and my little sister’s heads. She was incredibly distant, but…loving, in her own way? I guess. And my father was, well, so unremarkable a man that I,” here he pursed half-fused lips, “Actually. If I’m being honest, Jon, literally nothing about him stands out in my memory. But Lis and I didn’t starve, somehow. We were hungry at times, but we weren’t _dead_.” He cleared his throat before carrying on. “They’re still alive and still married, last I checked, they’ve just long-since disowned me; more due to me being more of a fag than they expected than my criminal activities. But, _Zero_ things of value were lost.” Never mind that it had been years upon years since he’d last talked to Lisa, as well.

“…If I had to name one consistent with the Gallery, it’d be that nearly all of us had terrible upbringings. In one way or another.” He focused on some point in the distance, quieting for about fifteen seconds. “Like minds certainly do attract like minds. You have old French Fry Man, in a way; and, though you won’t catch me saying this in his presence anytime soon, he’s a better parental figure than 99% of people here had. A shame that he wasn’t able to have children of his own.”

“You know, one of these days he’ll actually kill you for that bull.” The added _‘And I know damn well that I couldn’t handle that…but I couldn’t handle killing Victor, either’_ , was left as unspoken (but as understood between Rogues) as always. “Maybe it won’t be today, and maybe it won’t be tomorrow, but it’ll be someday. I’m just thankful you have the sense not to provoke him regarding Nora’s condition. Even Basil wouldn’t stop him, then. And I wouldn’t blame either of them, after…What, literally over half a century? They know each other better than most do.”

“While the prospect of death doesn’t intimidate me in the least, I’d like to continue not being a human popsicle. Or drowned in mud-like biological slurry. That wouldn’t make for an attractive corpse,” he joked. “I can’t say that I would find fault with Dr. Fries for that, nor would I with Mr. Karlo. It’s a perfectly reasonable response. However, I _fear_ that I’m not lacking in common sense enough to try poking the proverbial bear.”

He withdrew then. “Well,” he began, stifling an awful chuckle, “I’m not a necrophiliac by any means, but-“ Silas let out a shuddering, sharp breath, and dragged his hands over his face. “ _Jesus_. I’m not going to finish that sentence. I’m not even going to bother. You can- Yeah. Fuck. I think I’ll shut up now. That was in poor taste all around.”

He was quiet, considering the existence of that statement as any remotely normal person would. Then got up, as if to leave the room. And then sat back down after a very awkward several minutes of standing immobile. “ _To think, you’re pushing forty_ ,” this was accentuated with a raised brow as he settled himself back on the ottoman. 

“ _Yet_ ,” he replied in equal measure, for a split second flashing an oddly meek grin (warped still by the constraints of partially melted flesh), “no one around here seems to really care about people not giving thought to their speech, do they? You have to admit, Jon, not many of are mature for our ages. Or, _consistently_ mature? And in terms of politics, Gotham City’s always been a shithole.” Again, he sighed, burnt features falling. “Good news: I _still_ don’t have to be drunk to say whatever shit pops into my head. Although, it’s only been a few days.”

“Mmm-hmm. I’m glad that you aren’t, though. And once again, Edward comes to mind in terms of immaturity. And Ragdoll, among many others.”

“Ugh, don’t get me _started_ on him,” the candyman near-growled. “While I suppose it’s nice that the world hasn’t ripped another Rogue from us in the interim — though, we all know no one will ever miss Tetch – I can’t say that I’ve missed how annoying he is. Doesn’t help that he tries to be obnoxious on purpose. But, that’s Peter for you.”

“I’d be surprised if anyone _did_ miss the Hatter. Good riddance, as people say.” He laughed then, the noise low and pleasantly warm. “There were terrible individuals among our ranks, and then there were people worse than what the average man – or woman, or what-have-you — could dream of. There still are. Although I hate Two-Face, we can agree he fits into the former category. If only by virtue of being _that_ pathetic.”

“Indeed.” And he closed his eye, drinking in the sound. “Harvey is terrible in the sense that he’s just sad; but I’ve said that before. Like a child’s ice cream cone that’s fallen on a hot sidewalk.” Still he didn’t actually _hate_ the man. “Speaking of terrible people, have you heard from Pyg recently? Or Dollmaker, for that matter.”

“I haven’t, and I’m unsure whether or not to feel relieved. On one hand, no one liked either of them. On the other, they’re Rogues like any one of us; they’re simply _less tactful than us_ , ha,” he mused audibly, grinning at the thought. He quickly composed himself, however. “ _Ahem_. If they _are_ still out there, they’re likely lying low. Though the Bat has retreated for now, he may return at a later date.”

“Yes, yes, that’s. Well, that’s true enough.” Absentmindedly, he waved a hand in the air. “They orbited the same circles back in the Gallery’s heyday, so who’s to say they aren’t holed up together somewhere? Not that I’d take Valentino for a gay man.” Not that he ever intended to ask about that; not that it would have been appropriate to ask in the first place. “That’s not what I meant, though.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if they were working together, but I’m far from willing to bet money on it.” There were always better things to use valuable currency on when you frequently worked with chemicals (and, you know, _tortured others_ ). “In terms of personality and habits, they have common enough ground. I imagine we won’t know for sure until they rear their heads again. Knowing the state of Gotham’s underground, that could take years.”

“That it could,” he assented. “And I wouldn’t put anything of value in a proverbial betting pool, either. It’s kind of like a Schrödinger’s Cat situation, isn’t it? Are they alive, or has something finally stopped them in their tracks? Until one of them winds up dead at somebody’s doorstep, or in the morgue at Arkham, we won’t have a clue.”

He was about to agree when something _squelched_ audibly.

Both Rogues’ heads abruptly snapped towards the doorway; almost unconsciously, Silas gripped the cane at his side tighter.

“You boys ready to join civilization again?” Despite the slight snark present in her tone, the diminutive, blonde-haired figure of Mary Dahl – made even smaller against the (well, roughly _two inches_ ) over eight-foot-tall Basil Karlo, whom she had chosen to sit atop – was brimming with displeasure. “I was getting worried.”

“She wasn’t the only one,” the sightless shapeshifter confirmed. Despite his evident lack of real eyes, the yellowed eyespots adorning what passed for his cranium seemed to burn into their surroundings. “Thank the God I no longer have faith in that dear Victor is asleep at present; although I know for a fact that _you’ll_ be chewed out later, Torrance.” Or, moreso slightly-aggressively lectured.

He glanced over at the former leader of the Gallery, who muttered an “Of course, Bas. Better _Now_ than _Later_ ,” then planted the cane firmly into the floor as he rose to his feet. Jonathan wasn’t far behind in terms of getting up, and Basil simply slid aside in that vaguely disquieting, boneless way of his as they all filed back out into the hallway they’d come down.

“Good afternoon, Mary. I take it you’ve been well, despite,” Jonathan gestured broadly at the quartet’s current surroundings, “all of this?”

“Lovely to see you, Jon dear; I’m sorry that I didn’t get the chance to say hello when you initially came in, but with this many people things are always hectic. I could be better, but we’re all a little restless due to…well, you have eyes and ears, you know. But, it’s nice to see everyone again.” she responded matter-of-factly, to which the Scarecrow dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“- you know, I’m not sure if it was better or if it was _worse_ when I couldn’t understand the mix of Russian and Danish Vic slips into sometimes,” Silas grumbled; there was no real fire behind the words, only slight irritation. The cane _click_ ed against the tile flooring of the hall as he moved.

Befitting of something with no technical vocal cords (other than a liquefied slush, that was), Basil’s laugh appropriately sounded like something from the depths of Hell. “That, my friend, is a question I can’t help you with.”

“Maybe one of these days I’ll make up my mind, hmm?”


End file.
